Goodwill
by Mummyluvr
Summary: The boys head to a small town in Iowa that they spent two years of their childhood in.  Unfortunately, it was the worst two years of Dean's life, and the past has come back to haunt him.  Better summary inside.
1. Gonna Clean Up Your Looks

Time for another story from me! Yay! I honestly didn't think that I would get this one done. It was inspired by a friend of mine, the MCR song 'Teenagers' (which I suggest you download cuz it's awesome!), and Dean's self-esteem issues. Enjoy!

**Title:** Goodwill

**Summary: **The boys and girls in the cliques, the awful names that they stick, you're never gonna fit in much, kid... My Chemical Romance said it best. The boys head to a small town in Iowa where they spent two years of their lives, and Sam discovers a hidden piece of his brother's past, one that effects the present in more ways than one.

**Rating:** T for language and a few violent images toward the end

**A/N:** Every chapter name is a line from the My Chemical Romance song 'Teenagers,' which inspired the story. I don't own the song or the lyrics. They belong to the band and record label. My muse jsut enjoyed rocking out :)

**Disclaimer:** Guess what? Supernatural isn't mine, either.

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Goodwill

_1._

_Gonna Clean Up Your Looks_

He liked trying on clothes. He liked looking in the mirrors in the little dressing rooms and appraising himself. He liked the way the new fabric felt against his scarred skin, fresh and clean and smooth. He liked looking like he was worth something, like he could afford clothing that hadn't already been worn and ripped and stained.

He could never buy them, though. Clothes weren't important, not like guns and ammo and lighter fluid and matches and salt. The only reason they spent any money on clothes at all was because they were a necessity. To be accepted into society, you needed to cover up.

So, Dean would leave the motel rooms saying that he was going to get something to eat, pick up a few supplies, maybe grab some beer. He would do those things, make sure that he did those things, because Sam was smart, and Sam couldn't figure this out. He would do those things after he got back from Wal-Mart or K-Mart or Target or whatever else was in town that was cheap and sold clothes. All the superstores.

He went in and headed straight to the clothing section, browsing and picking out things he liked and then trying them on in the dressing rooms and marveling at the way he looked, the way he felt. He always considered buying something, hiding it from Sam, keeping it safe until it was absolutely necessary to wear it, but he never did. They didn't have much money, and what little they had should go towards food and supplies. Not clothes. Never clothes.

When the time came to trade in one set of tattered shirts and pants for another, the Winchesters went to Goodwill. Stuff was cheap there, affordable on their salary. They'd shopped there since the fire, and Dean had no intention of stopping. They needed to save up their money, and that was the best way.

Never mind that most of the stuff at Goodwill in their size was already ripped, stained, worn through, or smelly. It was all they could afford. Sure, it itched, and Sam had actually gotten a rash from a shirt once, but that wasn't important. What was important was keeping food on the table and weapons in the trunk.

Sighing, Dean headed out of the latest dressing room, a few shirts and a pair of jeans in his hand. He set the pants down on the counter, hung the shirts on the rack, only pausing to glance again at the tags and consider his choices.

He put his hands in his pockets and walked away, looking for the chips and beer he'd promised his brother he'd return with. He didn't see Sam duck down behind a clothing rack, didn't know that the younger man had gotten suspicious after beer runs had started taking over an hour.

Slowly, Sam crawled from his hiding place and walked over to the return rack. He flipped through the clothes his brother had put back, constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of Dean's return.

There was nothing special about the shirts. Most of them were black tees. He looked over his shoulder again. It wasn't the first time he'd followed Dean. Small towns made for easy tracking, as did GPS capabilities in cell phones. It was always the same thing when the older man went off alone. First to the clothing aisles, then down to business. Sam was just waiting for the right time to confront him about it.

Sighing, the young hunter headed for the door, knowing that he had to get back before his brother. So what if Dean liked looking at clothes? Maybe he just liked to check out the latest styles. Just because his brother did something that seemed out of character didn't mean that there was some deep-seated issue behind it. Right?

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Got a new hunt," Sam announced as Dean strolled through the door with a grocery bag full of chips and cheap beer.

"Great," the elder announced, dropping his purchases on the floor and flopping down on his bed. "Where and what?"

"Stratlebie, Iowa. Sounds like a poltergeist."

Dean sat up. "Stratlebie? Did we go to school there once?"

Sammy nodded. "Yep. That was the longest we'd ever stayed in a town. The central location in the U.S. helped, I guess. Dad took a lot of jobs those years, huh?"

"Man, how long did we stay there?"

"'Bout a year and a half, maybe two," Sam guessed. "I think you spent your last two years of junior high there."

Dean slumped back down on the bed. "Yeah," he muttered, "I did."

"So, this job," Sam said, apparently not noticing his brother's morose tone, "there's a lady in the town, Candace Merriwhether. She called tonight while you were gone. Got my number from one of her friends, I guess, who got it from dad or something. She thinks there's something that wants to hurt her and her daughter. She wants us to check it out."

"Great," Dean mumbled, not really paying attention anymore, lost in thought about the town he'd been forced to spend two formative years of his life in.

"I told her we'd stop by tomorrow," Sam continued, "it's not too far from here. What do you think?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, all right. Whatever." He sighed, getting up off the bed and heading into the bathroom, running a shaky hand through his short hair.

Stratlebie. He remembered the town, all right. Remembered it all too well. It only made sense that the one town their father decided to settle in for more than a month or two housed the richest, meanest kids on the freakin' planet, kids who weren't afraid to speak their minds.

He didn't want to go. The small Iowa town was on the top of his list of places to avoid, even above Lawrence. He'd sworn as they pulled out of that hellhole for the final time that he would never return, never give them the pleasure of a second chance.

He looked into the mirror, at his shabby reflection. Worn clothing, dirty hands, a day's worth of stubble, and haunted eyes stared back at him. He wasn't ready to go back, hadn't acquired the things he'd always imagined would make them like him. He could still hear their catcalls ringing in his ears, could feel his face redden at the memories, could feel his self-esteem sink even lower. He hadn't even thought that was possible.

And still, his reflection stared back at him, the eyes no longer haunted, but lit by thoughts of things to do to make him suffer, the face smooth, hands clean, clothes no longer in tatters, but brand new. He lashed out, hit the mirror, smashed it effortlessly, as easily as he had told himself he would smash those wretched kids. It shattered around him, much as his childhood had, raining down splinters of broken glass covered in the blood from his split knuckles.

He didn't feel the pain, only felt years of pent-up aggression and hatred and self-pity suddenly come rushing out.

It could always have been worse, though. It could have been sooner. He could have gone back after two years instead of fifteen. Maybe those kids had moved. Maybe they weren't even there anymore. Maybe he could finally make his peace with the worst two years of his life.

And maybe unicorns really _did_ ride on silver moonbeams and shoot rainbows outta their ass.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, as usual. I really want to know what you guys think about this one :) 


	2. The Awful Names That They Stick

OK. So, I got reviews. Not as many as I was expecting, but I still got them (of course, I did post late on a Sunday and apparently expect people to read my fanfiction while at work and school. Duh.). Thanks for the encouragement. Here's chapter 2..._

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_2._

_The Awful Names That They Stick_

The car ride was eerily quiet, more so than usual because the antenna couldn't pick up any good radio stations within fifteen miles of the town. Dean believed that to be a sign. The place really _was _evil.

He had been pleasantly surprised to find that Sam hadn't mentioned the broken bathroom mirror or the unusual silence. He was usually the first to take advantage of any opportunity for a chick-flick moment.

"So," Sammy finally said, breaking the awkward silence and making his brother groan inwardly. He'd known the little emo couldn't resist. "This town. I don't really remember it. Just another place, you know? I remember the one after it, though."

Dean shot him a sideways glance. "Ok, random. Why bring this up?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. I just got to thinking last night and realized that I don't remember much about Stratlebie."

"Why the town after it?"

The younger man shrugged again. "It was the only time you and dad ever fought. I mean, _really_ fought. I thought you were gonna kill each other."

Dean straightened up in his seat. All those years, and he'd never realized that Sam had listened in on that. "You remember what we were fighting about?"

"Naw. Just that there was some yelling and some cussing and that he told you to 'take it back,' whatever that meant."

"You seriously remember all of that?"

"Only time you two ever went at it," Sam said softly, "it was kind of scary."

"Well it didn't happen here," Dean reminded him as they finally reached the town limit, "so it doesn't matter. Nothing to do with this place."

Sammy nodded slowly, catching the tone in his brother's voice this time, the fact that he was hiding something. "Yeah. So, this woman that called said she lives about a half mile north of main street. Shouldn't be too hard to find."

Dean glanced over at him. "That's what they all say."

Roughly half an hour later, the Impala had pulled up in front of a large house with big bay windows that were covered with elaborate iron rods. The place looked exactly as Dean had imagined it would: imposing and mocking. It stared down at him with wide, sparklingly clean windows, the door sneering, telling him that he would never be good enough, never be rich enough, never really fit in.

"I still don't understand how you got us lost," Sam muttered, startling Dean out of his thoughts as he climbed out of the car, "there are, like, three streets in this entire town."

"All the houses look alike," he pointed out. It was a true statement. Every house on the black looked the same, big and full of wealth. He hated it.

"That's a crappy excuse, Dean," Sam argued, walking calmly up to the door, unaware of the evil that lay within, and knocked. Dean joined him slowly, secretly wishing that the home's occupants were gone for the day, but knowing all along that they weren't.

The door opened to reveal a woman about Dean's age with flowing blonde hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, eyes he hadn't seen since his final day of school in the hellish town. "Hello?"

Sam nodded, flashing a smile as Dean felt his stomach twist itself into uncomfortable knots. "Hi. Um, Candace?"

"Candy," the woman said slowly, eyeing the brothers suspiciously.

"You called me the other day."

The woman scrunched her eyes up and appraised him. "Sam Winchester?"

"That's me."

"Who's that?" It was the question Dean had been dreading since she'd opened the door.

"My brother, Dean."

Her eyes went wide. "Dean," she paused, her tongue tracing its way across her teeth as her mouth curled into a wicked smile, "Winchester?"

"That's typically the way surnames work," Sam grinned.

"Your maiden name was Damien, wasn't it?" Dean asked, speaking up for the first time since being confronted with the adult version of the little girl that had made his junior high years a living Hell.

"Good memory," Candy grinned.

"You two know each other?" Sam asked, looking between the two.

"We went to middle school together."

"Friends?"

"Acquaintances," Dean clarified, unable to keep a slight quiver out of his voice as he stared into those pitiless blue eyes and two straight years of torture ran unbidden through his mind.

"I'm impressed," the woman said, her grin turning from something almost innocent to something malicious, "that's a four syllable word."

"You haven't changed a bit," Dean growled, though, to him, it sounded more like a whimper.

"Neither have you," she smirked, looking him up and down, her eyes sparkling with menace, "_Goodwill_."

Dean felt himself flinch, his heart skipping a beat as his face reddened. He could see Sam out of the corner of his eye, hated the way the younger man squinted and looked between the two old classmates, knowing that he'd seen the automatic reaction. He knew the question was inevitable.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but didn't say anything. He just stood there, looking between Dean and Candy, as if he had no idea what to say. Finally, he found his voice. "So, what's the problem?"

Candace never took her eyes off Dean. "Come on in and we'll chat." She turned and walked into the spacious house. Reluctantly, Dean followed her, Sam tagging along behind.

"How'd you get his number?" Dean asked, his voice soft, almost timid, hands in his pockets, head down.

"A friend of mine had a problem a while back and called one of her friends, who referred her to this chick in Nebraska, who referred someone else who helped her and referred Sammy." Dean just nodded weakly, not even challenging her use of his brother's nickname.

"What's the problem?" Sam asked, trying to hide his concern at his brother's actions and attitude. Dean was normally so gung-ho, so confident, especially around the opposite sex. Something was wrong.

"Things go flying," Candy said, sitting down on the couch and patting the seat next to her. Sam sat down, but Dean remained standing, his head still down. "Furniture and stuff. My things go missing. I hear weird noises at night. But, mostly, it's the flying objects."

"You said you have a daughter?"

She nodded. "Melanie. She's off at cheerleading practice right now. I think that whatever this is, it's after her. This stuff only seems to happen when Mel's around."

"When did it start?"

"About three years ago. It was small at first. Nothing like it is now. I'm getting desperate."

"And how old is this house?"

"If you're trying to ask if anyone's ever died here, no. It's new." She looked pointedly at Dean, "_brand_ new."

Sammy looked between them again, starting to figure out the puzzle, but still unsure as to how some of the bigger pieces fit together. He knew one thing for sure, though. They couldn't stay. This woman did something to Dean, and he didn't like it.

"Ok," Sam said, standing up and catching his brother's eye, choosing to ignore the confused expression that came from abandoning the Q and A session so early in the game, "we should get going. We've got some stuff we need to discuss."

"I'll walk you to the door," she said, standing up and flashing a bright smile. She led them through the house and back to the front door, pulling it open and standing back. "I'll see you soon, then."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, heading out towards the car with Dean right behind him. He was almost to the Impala when Candy called out after them.

"Oh, Goodwill!" Sam looked back at her, surprised to find that Dean had stopped in his tracks and actually turned to face her. "Come here." The older hunter stared at her. "Well, come on." Slowly, he trudged back up to her front door.

"What?" he asked, hating the way his voice sounded, so small and weak and pathetic, almost as if he'd gone back in time.

"You didn't think I forgot, did you?" She smiled sweetly and began digging through her pocket. She pulled out a crumpled five dollar bill and held it out to him. "Go on," she urged, "take it."

His lip twitching, from shame or sadness or anger, he couldn't quite tell, Dean reached out and took the money, stuffing it into his own pocket.

"There," Candy cooed, "go buy yourself something nice." She slammed the door.

Slowly, the older hunter turned back to the car, looking at his brother for the first time since arriving at the house, his eyes telling tales of torment and humiliation that made the younger man's heart ache.


	3. You're Never Gonna Fit In Much, Kid

Um... my jaw just hit the floor. Is this what happens when I mention that I'm not getting a lot of reviews? Gonna have to do that more often, huh?

I'm glad you guys are liking it so far. Also glad that you're hating Candy with a passion. Maybe she's like a Tulpa, and the more we think about hurting her, the more pain is inflicted upon her. But don't get your hopes up. Evil always seems to triumph in some small way, doesn't it?

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_3._

_You're Never Gonna Fit In Much, Kid_

They searched for a motel longer than they should have, the car silent, Sam deciding that it probably wasn't best to point out that they'd passed seven places with rooms for rent since leaving Candy's house. They finally found a place about five miles outside of the town and got settled in.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the TV, which wasn't even on, without really seeing it. He wasn't sure whether he should be worried or angry or hurt. He was starting to understand the subtle hints his brother had been sending him since hearing the location of their latest hunt.

He tried to think back to the last time they'd been in Stratlebie. He'd been happier there than he'd been anywhere else, mostly because he'd gotten to keep all of the friends he'd made. He'd never really paid attention to his brother's actions, never really noticed any changes, not like he had at Candy's house.

And that name she'd called him, the one he'd responded to. _Goodwill_. Like the store. Like the store where they bought all of their clothes. All of their _used_ clothes. Not clothes like the ones that Candy had been wearing that day, like the ones that everyone in that town wore, like the ones that could be found in any superstore across the country.

And it all clicked together, just like that. Dean lying about where he was going when he left to get things, his reaction to the town and the woman they had to save, his submission. It all made sense, except for one big gap that could only be filled by the man who had spent the past hour in the bathroom without running any water or giving any explanation.

Sighing, Sam got to his feet and walked across the small room to the closed bathroom door. He contemplated knocking, but figured that it was overrated at a time like this, a time when answers were needed and Dean was the only one who could provide them. He opened the door.

Dean jumped and spun around to face his brother as the door creaked on old hinges, color rushing to his face, his eyes darting away as if he'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to, even though it seemed that he'd just been staring into the mirror.

"We need to talk," Sam stated simply. He was surprised when Dean didn't fight, didn't accuse him of being a chick, didn't even glare at him, just nodded. "Goodwill," Sam added softly to clarify as his brother walked past him, head down, into the main room.

He was up against the wall with Dean's forearm pushing into his throat before he could respond. Anger flashed dangerously in the older man's haunted eyes as he set his face a mere inch from Sam's.

"Don't you _ever_," Dean hissed through clenched teeth, "call me that _again_. You understand?"

Sam nodded weakly, his vision swimming, the room fading out around him. "Hurting… me," he managed to choke out.

Eyes widening, anger slowly fading to be replaced by fear and hurt, Dean backed away. Sam let himself slide to the floor, rubbing his neck as the world came back into focus around him. He looked up at his brother, waiting for an apology, but Dean didn't oblige.

"You gonna tell me what that was about?" Sammy asked as soon as he was sure his voice wouldn't give out on him.

Dean shrugged, slinking over to one of the beds and sitting down on the edge, staring at the blank TV, much as Sam had done earlier. "Nothing," he muttered, "it's in the past."

"Doesn't mean it's not important," Sam said, getting to his feet, stumbling a bit, and sitting down beside his brother.

"You're not gonna turn this into a thing," Dean said, glancing at him, his voice lacking conviction.

Sammy shook his head. "No. I just want to know."

The older man looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, as if he wanted to trust the man sitting beside him on the bed, but couldn't find the courage to do so. In that single moment, Sam saw years of abandonment and broken trust, lies and humiliation, promises unkept and hidden torture flashing across his brother's face. He'd never realized until then just how expressive Dean's eyes really were, how good he was at hiding the truth with every movement of his body, but how he could never control those eyes.

He was almost sure his brother was going to turn away and shrug it off, say it was nothing. Dean ducked his head, averting his eyes, hiding the pain. And then he started to talk.

"Middle school kids are mean," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, "I mean, _really_ mean. Elementary kids don't judge you, and high school kids are mature, so it's the kids in-between you've gotta watch out for."

Sam just nodded, trying to comprehend, but not completely sure of what his brother was talking about.

"I went to junior high here," Dean said, "in that town. With those _kids_." He spat the last word out as if it were filthy, something he'd rather not think about, but was forced to, nonetheless. He looked back up at Sam, trying to make him understand with those few, simple words, begging him to figure it out on his own, just to avoid the memories a bit longer. When Sam still didn't get it, he went on. "They made fun of me."

That much, the younger hunter had guessed at. "Ok."

"Everyday. For two straight years." He smirked. "Like years could be gay." Sam just nodded, recognizing the attempt at humor, the defense mechanism. If anyone was going to laugh, it was going to be Dean, and not at his own expense.

"What did they do?" Sam prodded gently as his brother lapsed into silence.

"It only started with one," Dean said, averting his gaze again, focusing on his shoes and the carpet and anything but reliving the nightmare of his childhood in front of his brother, "just one kid. It was this pretty little girl. She saw me on the first day and just attacked. Took one look and knew I shouldn't have been there. She knew we lived in that dumpy apartment complex, knew we couldn't afford new supplies or clothes or anything. She called me Goodwill."

"That's just one kid," Sammy said softly, reaching out and placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, surprised that Dean didn't try to pull away.

"You know what popularity is?" Dean asked. "It's being in charge of everything and everyone. She was popular. It was like a game of follow the leader. If anyone tried to help, she condemned them. Made them outcasts. Didn't take long for everyone to side with her."

Sam opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say, couldn't think of anything to do to help. He hated the feeling, hated being helpless, knowing that his brother needed him. He hated the way he felt about it afterward even more. Like he'd let his brother down.

"She called me Goodwill," Dean continued, "and she gave me money. Every week. A buck here, five there. Even gave me a twenty once. Always told me the same thing. 'Go buy yourself something nice.' I always took it. If I didn't… I don't know what she would have done."

Sammy nodded. That explained a lot. That explained almost everything. Everything except-

"It's her," Dean whispered, turning damp eyes to his brother, face projecting the internal battle taking place inside the older man, the one being waged for control, the one his pride was losing to the raw emotion that had been pent up inside since a young age, "it's Candy. _She started it_."

Sam still felt frozen, still felt unsure of what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped both arms tightly around his brother, waiting for the inevitable cry of protest, not as shocked as he should have been when it didn't come.


	4. Maybe They'll Leave You Alone But Not Me

Glad you all feel so strongly about this one... I guess. Last time people felt this way about one of my stories, they stopped reading. You guys are hooked, though, right?

Right?

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_4._

_Maybe They'll Leave You Alone, But Not Me_

The ceiling, Sam found, was very interesting. It gave him something to focus on as he thought back over the years. He glanced over at his brother's bed, comforted by the snoring, unmoving lump that lay underneath the thin blankets. No nightmares, at least. A little embarrassment in the morning, but no nightmares.

He looked back to the off-white plaster, letting his mind wander back. He didn't remember Stratlebie, just the town after, the town where his father and brother had fought for the first and only time. An actual shouting match. Then the smack.

He strained his mind, fighting to remember the events that had led up to that sound, the one that had shocked him, had made his blood run cold, had made him wonder- not for the first time- what it could have been like if their father had chosen run-down bars to run-down motels, alcoholic spirits to dead ones.

It had been their first day in the town, he knew that much for sure. He'd been sitting on the couch in the thing that passed for a living room, watching a fuzzy TV and internally bitching about his lot in life. Dean had been gone for most of the day. John had been in the kitchen, cleaning his guns and double checking his notes on the next case.

The front door had opened, and Dean had walked in, muttering some half-hearted greeting to his silently-fuming brother. Sam could remember being angry about leaving the only real friends he'd had, the ones he'd kept the longest, the ones that had, unbeknownst to him, made fun of his brother whenever they were alone with the older boy.

He remembered hearing Dean's footsteps on the kitchen tiles, remembered his father asking where he'd been. The store. The inevitable query of what he'd bought, followed by silence. The silence was broken by a growl of anger, disjointed words, and then yelling. Actual shouting. By _both_ parties.

He still couldn't quite remember what they'd been fighting about, why they'd started yelling. Only a few fractured phrases jumped out at him. _Take it back_. _You can't make me. Where'd you get the money? I earned it. We need it. Get your own. You think I'm not trying my hardest? I think it would be easier if you had a job. Watch it. Mom wouldn't have wanted this._

And then the noise, a sharp sound, his father's hand against his brother's face, hard enough to draw blood and scare Dean enough to always worm his way in between his remaining family members whenever they fought, waiting for a blow that never came, eager to protect his charge.

Sam remembered that noise, remembered it well. He'd never forgotten that noise. After that night, it had been so much harder to accept the fact that Dean was willing to blindly follow his father's orders to the letter, even if that loyalty suddenly made sense.

He'd never forgotten the statement that came after that sound, either. It had just been too random, too out-of-place to simply shrug off. _They're not even your size._

He sat straight up in bed, a small gasp escaping between slightly parted lips. The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He looked over at his sleeping brother, heart pounding in his chest, a lump forming in his throat.

He remembered the town that had come after Stratlebie for more than just the fight. Exactly one week after they'd arrived had been his first day of junior high and Dean's first day of high school.

Sammy had woken up that morning to the smell of Dean making waffles in the kitchen. He'd climbed out of bed, silently cursing his father for missing the milestone, and opened his closet to find it empty.

He'd though it was a prank, had stormed down the stairs, shouting every word in his steadily increasing vocabulary of things that he couldn't say around his dad. Dean would pay for stealing his clothes on such an important day.

Dean had surprised him, though, by handing him a plastic bag from the local superstore. It had been full of new clothes. Shirts, socks, jeans, even boxers. _Thought you should make a good first impression._

Sam had asked where he'd gotten the money, and his brother's only response had been that he'd earned it.

He'd earned it, all right, Sam realized as he sat in the bed, staring with wide eyes at his brother's sleeping form. He'd gone through two years of torture, two years of handouts, two years of being everyone's verbal punching bag, just to give Sam a fighting chance. It didn't seem fair.

He laid back down, his heart still pounding, eyes threatening to overflow as he mentally stepped back and looked at the picture that had been drawn in front of him in such a short amount of time.

Dean could have used that money for himself, could have stopped the torture, at least for an while. He could have let Sam get John so worked up that the sound of flesh-on-flesh resonated through every dumpy motel room. He could have opted out of this hunt, made up an excuse.

But he didn't.

And he never asked for anything in return.


	5. Another Cog In The Murder Machine

Hey, guys. Thanks for all the support. It really is awesome having someone reading and reviewing and loving this one so much. And jsut for the record, you aren't the only ones who would rather leave Candy to die..._

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_5._

_Another Cog In The Murder Machine_

"So," Dean said slowly, barely glancing over at his brother from the TV, which was blasting some crap about the CW's newest 'network defining' show that was pulling in fewer viewers than the second Thursday night timeslot, "what's the plan?"

"The plan?" Sam asked, momentarily ceasing his search for fresh clothes to look over at his brother, "what plan?"

"The plan for the hunt. What are we gonna do about Candy's ghost?"

Sam pulled a shirt out of his duffle bag and sniffed it. Smelled good enough. "I was thinking we could just leave town and let her deal with it herself. Maybe if we get lucky, a giant clown will pop out from under her bed and try to kill her."

Dean turned off the TV and stared at him. "This sudden violence of yours wouldn't have anything to do with what we talked about last night, would it, Carol Anne?"

"Thought we weren't gonna make it a thing."

"And we weren't," Dean replied, "until you mentioned clowns. Now it's a thing. You've officially crossed it over into thing territory by bringing it up again."

"But I didn't mention it, you did."

"You implied."

"Why are we even having this conversation? Dean, she deserves it. It's karma."

"If karma existed," Dean replied, turning the TV back on and grimacing at the station's programming, "whoever's running this sideshow would have been dragged off by screaming fangirls and shot full of rock salt by now."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Ok. So, are we talking about Candy and cursed movies, or the CW's new fall lineup here?"

Dean sighed. "Look, we can't leave after you promised to help."

"Like Hell we can't."

"I'm not backing out with my tail between my legs. You know how to shut a bully up?"

Sam shrugged. "Tell you?"

"You need to learn how to fight your own battles, ok? No. You prove 'em wrong. We're finishing this hunt. We're saving that family."

"After everything she did to you, you actually want to _save_ her?"

Dean shrugged. "Off-chance that karma does exist…"

"Dean-"

"She's got a kid, all right? If it was just her, I'd think about it, but I'm not leaving that kid to die. We're finishing it. That's final."

"Ok," Sam conceded, zipping his bag shut, "we'll see it through. But you're not going back there."

Dean glared up at him. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I'm not gonna let her-"

"If I could put up with it when I was a kid, I'm pretty sure I can handle it now, Sam."

"Someone's gotta dig up the history of the town," the younger man suggested, eager to spare his brother the pain of more torture without ruining his pride, "I'm usually the one to do it. Maybe I want a break."

"You want me to sit still for more than five minutes? Do you even know me?"

"Just see if the place used to be inhabited by Native American tribes, if there's any local lore, if her house is maybe sitting on some cursed burial ground. That's all I'm asking."

"And what are you gonna do?"

Sammy shrugged. "I'm gonna talk to Candy. Maybe get some specifics."

"You're gonna make this into more of a thing if I fight you on it, aren't you?"

The younger hunter grinned. "Don't I always?"

Dean returned the expression, relief crossing his face, lingering in his eyes, momentarily blocking out the joy that had been there all morning, the joy of opening up and not being shot down, the joy of being understood. "Have fun with the spawn of Satan."

o0o0o0o0o0o

Candy liked to talk. She talked about the thing haunting her house, how it only came out when her daughter was home, how it enjoyed keeping them up at night and attacking Candy, how she couldn't wait to see how the boys got rid of it.

She also liked to talk about herself. As soon as she had finished a five minute explanation on the ghostly phenomenon that was plaguing her family, she jumped straight into a monologue about how much money her rich ex-husband had to pay in child support. That led to a thrilling discussion about the family's caravan of SUVs. That led to a discussion on gas guzzlers, including the Impala.

"I don't know how your brother affords the upkeep on that thing."

"He does most of it himself," Sam gritted out through a strained smile.

"But the gas-"

"We're fine."

"Are you sure? You know, if you sold that junk heap-"

"We're not selling her." The pronoun slipped out, causing Sam to cringe. Boy, was he glad Dean wasn't there to hear that.

"But-"

"And it's not a junk heap." Ahh, that was better. "It belonged to our father."

"The deadbeat that let you live in that crappy apartment building? If I were you, I'd sell it just to get back at him."

"He's dead."

"Does that mean you finally got a proper house?"

Sam could feel his eyelid twitching. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle her. Fortunately, he was saved the pain of coming up with an acceptable answer and the trouble of further restraining himself from murdering Candy as the front door opened.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and a teenage girl with her mother's bright blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes entered the room. "Oh, we have company?"

"Melanie," Candy nodded, "this is Sam. Sam, this is my daughter."

"Hi," the girl said, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose and smiling sheepishly to reveal a mouth full of shining braces.

"So," Candy said, squinting her eyes for no apparent reason and only opening them again when her daughter had closed her mouth, "how was school?"

Mel smiled, keeping her mouth closed this time, an action that revealed deep dimples. "I got a 95 on my math test!" She gushed, jumping up and down, which was quite an accomplishment in her high heeled shoes.

"Oh."

The happiness drained from Mel's face in an instant. She looked down at the floor, her fingers playing with the bird-shaped logo on her surprisingly thin shirt. The tone in her mother's voice hadn't been one of happiness. She'd sounded disgusted. Judging by Mel's reaction, Sam guessed she heard that sound a lot.

"That's great," he said, smiling at the girl.

The teen looked up at him tentatively, biting her lip. "Really?"

"Yeah," Sam said, widening his smile and trying to ignore the horrified look that Candy was shooting him. "I was always horrible at math." It was a lie, a blatant lie, but it seemed to cheer her up a bit.

"You were?"

"Oh, yeah. Couldn't get above a C."

"What did you do?"

"Studied hard, paid attention in class, asked the teacher for help. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I started getting 90s on my tests. You know what else?"

"What?"

"I got accepted to Stanford."

Melanie's eyes bugged behind her glasses. "_Stanford_? But that's, like, the fourth best school in the country!"

"Exactly," Candy said sharply, cutting off Sam's reply before he could even begin to voice it, "it's not IVY League. You're not going to Stanford, anyway. You're going to Harvard. You can't get into Harvard with a 95, now, can you?"

Mel dropped her gaze back to the floor. "No, ma'am."

"Go to your room and study," the older woman commanded curtly, her eyes following her daughter's path out of the room. She turned to Sam and flashed a smile. "Kids."

Sam looked from Candy to the hall that Mel had disappeared down and back again. He was reminded of that Halloween remake Dean had forced him to go see, reminded of how a young Michael Myers had killed weaker animals before moving on to humans. It was the same thing. Candace had moved from other people's kids to her own.

"Is that it?" he asked, trying hard to keep the note of disgust out of his voice.

Candy shrugged. "I suppose so. Where's your brother?"

"Researching. He's making sure the town doesn't have a history."

The woman smirked, a malicious expression that made her normally beautiful face contort to the point that it matched her twisted personality perfectly. "Sure."

"We want to know what we're dealing with," Sam said through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed.

Candy nodded. "Of course. You can show yourself out, I assume?"

"Yeah. Thanks for your time."

"No problem. Tell Goodwill I said hi."

Sam stopped halfway across the room, a sudden urge to put the woman in her place rushing through him so fast that he couldn't fight it. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" He demanded, whirling around to face her."

"Sam," she scoffed, "I have three SUVs, a huge house, the best clothes money can buy, over two hundred dollars of make-up on right now, and enough money that Mel qualifies for _negative_ financial aid. I think I know how lucky I am."

Sammy shook his head. "No. You don't. Do you have any idea what my father did for a living?"

"Obviously not anything good," she replied, wrinkling her nose.

"He did what we do. What Dean and I do. He hunted. He hunted with guns and fire and arrows and knives. And he trained us to do the same."

"What's your point?"

"Remember what happened at Columbine?"

Candy sighed, rolling her eyes. "Spare me the My Chemical Romance song."

"I'm serious, Candy. He could have killed you. You're damn lucky he had the level of self-restraint he did back then. He could have killed you before you even knew what hit you."

"I'm sure he could have," she said, he voice monotone, disinterested, uncaring.

"And even after all of that," Sam continued, determined to finish his little speech, "he still wants to help you."

"How nice of him."

"It is," Sam smirked, "because I would have let you die." He spun around and left the house.


	6. Make Them Pay For The Things They Did

All right! 50 reviews! Whooooo! Seriously, are you guys as excited as I am? It makes me feel bad, knowing how much you're all enjoying this, giving you a chapter that's so short._

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_6._

_Make Them Pay For The Things That They Did_

"Find anything?"

Dean turned around, blinking until his eyes focused on Sam, and shook his head. "Dude, this town's cleaner than your vocabulary before you turned 20. There's nothing."

Sam plopped down on his bed, deciding to let the insult slide. "Same here. Nothing new, anyway. Candy's still a bitch. Met her daughter."

"Oh? Candy's Mini Me?"

"Actually, no."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're kidding."

Sam shook his head. "She's got the clothes and the designers specs, but she couldn't be more different. Her mom went after her about a test score. Poor girl got pretty upset."

The older man nodded. "Sounds like Candy."

"I got the impression this wasn't the first time, either. What kind of mother bullies her own kid?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it shut before any sound even came out. His eyes widened slowly and he turned back to the laptop, frantically typing something into a search engine.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced over the page he'd pulled up and slapped the desk hard with the palm of his hand. "Can't believe I missed it."

"Missed what?"

The elder turned back around to face his brother. "The poltergeist."

"What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head. "All this time, I've been searching for ghosts, but it was right under our noses."

"You're not making sense."

"Things go flying when the girl's at home, right? But not when she's away."

"So? Poltergeists have been known to attach themselves to certain family members and just follow that person around."

"That's what I though. But what if it's not following her? What if it _is_ her?"

"That even possible?"

Dean nodded. "The parapsychologists, those old stuffy dudes who think that everyone's psychic, have their own theory about poltergeists. Dad mentioned it in his journal. He figured they were all full of crap because we'd only ever gone up against the actual spirits."

"Ok. Mind filling me in?" Sam asked, tired of feeling so out-of-the-loop.

"Hormones. Teenage girls going through puberty. Like Carrie. The body starts changing, the glands in the brain go nuts, and they develop low-key psychic powers. Most don't even know they have 'em. Mostly, it's telekinesis."

"The moving objects." Sam nodded, finally starting to get it.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "and if what you told me is true, then there's a reason that everything attacks Candy. Mel's sick of being insulted."

"You think she knows?"

The older man shrugged. "One way to find out. We gotta go down there and ask her."


	7. Teenagers Scare The Living Shit Outta Me

Longer chapter this time, and one of my favorites, so i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!_

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_7._

_Teenagers Scare The Living Shit Outta Me_

Taking a deep breath, Dean reached out and knocked on the front door. It didn't take long for Candy to pull it open, her face contorting again with that same malicious smirk that she apparently only used on Dean. "Goodwill! How'd the research go?"

Dean tried to turn the flinch into a shrug and failed miserably. "Fine, I guess. Can we talk to you?"

"Sure." She stepped aside to let them into the spacious house, "what about?"

"Your daughter," Dean said, "is she around?"

"She's in the kitchen studying," Candy replied, nodding, "but you can't talk to her. Wouldn't want her to catch anything."

Dean ducked his head, the action enraging Sam more than it should have. "Poverty isn't contagious," the younger hunter pointed out, "and if it was, wouldn't you be living in a cardboard box right now? I mean, between hanging out with us and being the richest person in town…"

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she grinned, leading them to the living room and sitting down on the couch. "So, what about Mel?"

"The poltergeist," Dean explained, "isn't what we thought it was."

"It's a ghost. Even _I_ know that."

"No," Sam said, shaking his head, "we thought it was a ghost, but there's another explanation for that kind of activity in a house."

"Well, what is it?"

The brothers looked at each other. "Telekinesis," Dean said, "the ability to move objects with psychic energy. Most of the time, if it's a poltergeist and it's not an actual spirit, it's a teenage girl."

"You think Mel is…?"

"We do. It's not her fault. Just a hormonal imbalance that'll correct itself. She probably doesn't even know she's doing it."

"She's a _freak_," Candy whispered, that disgusted tone sneaking back into her voice.

"It's not-" Dean attempted, but was cut off.

"Melanie!"

The girl practically tripped over herself as she ran into the room. "Yes?"

"You won't believe what these people just told me."

"Candy." Dean warned.

"Shut up. Melanie, do you know what's been going on in this house? The things flying across the room?"

Mel nodded. "Yeah. I know."

"You're never the target."

"So?"

"You're the one throwing them."

"What? No. Mom-"

"They know what they're talking about, Melanie. They told me you're some kind of freak!"

Mel turned wide, hurt eyes on the brothers. "What?" she whispered.

Candy nodded. "Some kind of psychic freak."

The girl looked between the three adults, shocked, the color draining from her face. "Mom said you were supposed to be good." She finally said, her voice soft, almost dangerous. "I'm surprised it took you so long."

A glass vase sitting on the mantle of the fireplace suddenly flew across the room to crash into the wall behind the couch, spraying the three adults with shattered glass. "You knew?" Sam asked.

"Of course I knew," Mel barked as a the framed pictures on the wall began to shake and fall to the floor, "it was an accident at first. Things would go flying in my bedroom when I got stressed or mad. So I looked into it. I found out what it was. A _blessing_." She turned to her mother. "I'm _special_. I'm different. Aren't I good enough now?"

Candy turned scared eyes on Sam and Dean. "Do something! You said you had guns!"

"We kind of make it a point not to bring those into houses with telekinetic teens anymore," Dean explained.

"Nobody can stop me," Mel said, her eyes flashing, "I'm too powerful." The floor and walls began to tremble, the couch shaking, things falling and smashing all around them. "Isn't that what you wanted? A powerful daughter? One who was good at something?"

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, both realizing that what should have been a simple explanation had quickly turned into a dangerous situation.

"If you wanted to be good enough for me, why were you trying to get rid of me?" Candy demanded.

"Because I couldn't be good enough. You always told me that. I'm too ugly, too fat, too stupid. That's why I don't have a boyfriend. I asked someone to Prom and he accepted and you made that noise of yours, that disappointed grunting sound, and told me to tell him to go screw himself because he wasn't good enough. If _I'm_ not good enough and _he's_ not good enough, doesn't that make us the _perfect_ couple?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm never gonna get what I want while you're around. I'll never feel like I'm worth anything." She smiled wickedly, again revealing her braces. "I'm gonna take care of this now," she said slowly as the shaking stopped and the sound of a drawer in the other room rolling open reached their ears, "and I'm not leaving any witnesses."

A large knife flew into the room and hovered beside Mel's head. "Say good night, mother."

"Wait," Dean shouted, just as the knife began to rear back for the attack. "This won't solve anything."

"How would you know?" The girl barked.

"Because she did the same thing to me. And getting rid of her isn't gonna make it better. You're still gonna have the memories."

"What do you mean?"

Dean sighed, glancing over at Candy. "She made fun of the way I dressed and where I lived and how much money my family had for two years. When we left town, I thought things would get better, but they didn't. I've always worried about the way I look. She made me wonder what people really think of me. She made me want to change everything about myself."

The knife wavered, dipping a bit in the air beside the psychic's head. "Did you change?"

He shook his head. "No. Not really. But I did try to help other people. I wanted to make sure nobody I knew ever felt like that."

"So, you didn't change your looks, but you changed your attitude?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Guess you could say that." The knife dipped a little lower.

"You ever want to hurt her?"

"Yeah."

"Think about killing her?"

"I did."

"You want to follow through?"

"I had a plan. I got close."

"Why didn't you?"

He sighed. "What can a dead person learn about they way she treats people?"

"Nothing. Because she can never hurt them again."

"Going after her would have hurt a lot of people." He glanced at Sam, "people I cared about."

"But she wouldn't have been able to hurt you anymore."

"So? Maybe she could have changed."

The knife dropped a bit lower, until it was floating next to the teen's heart. "What if she couldn't have changed?" she asked, blinking back the tears that were forming behind her eyes. "What if she was too messed up?"

"Never would have known until she tried."

"What if she tried?" Mel whispered, a single tear slipping down her cheek, "what if she tried to change and she couldn't?"

"Maybe she's a better person for trying," Dean suggested, glancing quickly at Candy, unable to believe that she was capable of even attempting to alter the way she acted and thought.

Melanie shook her head. "I'm not," she said sadly as the knife spun in midair and plunged itself into her heart. She let out a strangled gasp as pain flooded her eyes, the knife twisting itself deeper into her chest.

Candy screamed as her daughter fell to the floor. The woman was off the couch in and instant, scooping up the girl in her arms, screaming at the brothers to get out of her house before she called the cops. They shakily obliged.


	8. As Long As Someone'll Bleed

Never in a million years could I ahve imagined that this story would have gotten the kind of response it did. I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this. This is the final chapter, and I'll try to post the prologue tommorow. Thanks again for reading!_

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_8._

_As Long As Someone'll Bleed_

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, once again staring at the blank TV, lost in thought. _I had a plan. I got close._ He couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend that Dean could even be capable of considering taking the life of an innocent human being. If he could contemplate murder, what else could he do?

"Were you telling the truth back there?" he asked as Dean stepped out of the bathroom, followed closely by a cloud of steam.

"What?"

"Did you actually have a plan? Could you really consider…?"

Dean sighed, sitting down in the chair in the corner of the room and hanging his head. "You tell me you would have done things different. I didn't know if we would ever leave town, Sam, and each day it got worse. I didn't know what to do. It got to the point that it was so bad… it was either her or me."

Sam stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that… if dad had been around more to raise you… if I didn't think you needed me as much as I did… we might not be having this conversation right now."

The younger man gaped at his brother, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. A sudden image rushed unbidden to the front of his mind. His brother, maybe 23 years old, sitting alone in a motel room, waiting to hear from their father, knowing that the older man wasn't coming back, that Sam didn't need him any more, just looking at the gun in his hand, wanting to end the pain.

"No."

"Look, it's no big deal."

"No big deal? Dean, she… she messed up your entire life. What are you talking about, it's no big deal? She almost turned you into a murderer."

Dean shook his head. "I kill things all the time."

"Yeah, but not human things. Not," he paused, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, "not _yourself_."

"I'm fine now. Really."

"No, you're not. Dean-"

"I thought we agreed not to turn this into a thing."

"Well, I'm making it a thing. Dean, if you had killed her back then, if you had killed yourself, I don't know what I would have done."

"Why do you think I didn't? Huh? Why do you think I didn't waste her? Why do you think I didn't off myself, even when I wanted to? Even when I was alone? Huh? You really think I wanted to live like that? You really think I enjoy going through life knowing that I'm some kind of freak that everyone leaves? You think it's easy to trust people? Hell, Sam, I half expected you to start calling me Goodwill after the other night."

Sam blinked. "You really think I'd do that?"

Dean shrugged. "Why not?"

"Well, I like to think I'm nicer than that."

"Yeah," Dean snorted, "some nice guy, going off to college and leaving me to rot." He stood up. "I've gotta take a shower."

"But you just-" Sam started. He was cut off by the sound of the bathroom door slamming as his still-wet brother ignored him.

Laying back on the bed, Sam sighed. That conversation hadn't gone quite the way he'd hoped it would. Worse yet, Dean had said some stuff Sam was sure he'd hate revealing in the morning. As far as the younger man was concerned, there was only one thing he could do to make it up to his brother.

He got up and grabbed the car keys from the dresser. He had a debt to pay.

o0o0o0o0o0o

"Sam!" Sam jumped awake as the sound of his name being yelled by his favorite, apparently very pissed, older brother echoed through the small room. "What the _hell_ did you do with all my clothes?"

Sam blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked around. Dean was clad in only his boxers and a tee shirt, digging through the duffle bag and making some irritated grunting noises.

The younger man grinned, pumping himself up for the big reveal. Dean had been asleep when he'd snuck back into the room around midnight with his bag of purchases.

"Well?" Dean demanded, spinning around to glare at his brother. "What? Wipe that grin off your face."

"Sorry," Sam said happily, rolling out of bed, "can't."

"And why the hell not?"

"Because I wanted to apologize for last night."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, let's just forget about this hellhole of a town, all right? Wipe the slate clean. You're not a little bitch, and I'm not suicidal. Happy?"

Sam frowned as he walked to the closet and pulled the doors open. There was something about the way his brother was talking that he didn't like, something about the almost conversational tone, like it was everyday thing to consider killing yourself.

Deciding to worry about it later, Sam reached into the closet and pulled out a couple of plastic bags from the local superstore. Smiling, he held them out to his brother.

"What's that supposed to be?" Dean asked, taking the bags.

"Just look," Sam shrugged.

Sighing, Dean opened up one of the bags. His eyes went wide as he pulled out a band new black tee shirt. He looked up at Sam.

The younger man shrugged again. "I saw you looking at something like that after our last hunt. I just thought-"

"You followed me?"

"I just wanted to know what was taking so long."

"You followed me?"

"I didn't get it until now."

"You…"

"Hey, let's not make a thing out of it, ok? Besides, I owe you."

Dean dropped the shirt back into the bag. "What do you mean?"

"I remembered what you and dad were fighting about. Thanks."

The older man grinned, pulling a shirt and a pair of jeans out of the bag. "Man, Reese Witherspoon's got nothing on us."


	9. They're Gonna Give You A Smirk

I do believe that I was so totally out of it yesterday that I informed you all that I would post the prologue of this story today. 'Pro' being a prefix for before. Yeah, I am soooo on-track to become an English major and professional writer. Anyway, today I don't ahve to worry about English, Spanish, or Speech homework and can tell you that this is the _epi_logue. So, yeah...

Thanks for bothering to read and review. It really makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You have no idea how much it boosts my self-esteem :)

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_Epilogue_

_They're Gonna Give You A Smirk_

Somehow, the big house didn't look as imposing anymore. Dean reached out and knocked on the sturdy door before glancing down at his clothes again. They felt new and clean and nice. Better yet, they made _him_ feel new and clean and nice.

Candy answered the door with puffy, red eyes, her make-up running down her face in dark lines where the tears had cut through it. "What do you want?" she rasped, her voice hoarse from all the emotion the past 24 hours had brought.

"Just to say good-bye. We're leaving."

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She glared at him, her eyes roving over him, appraising him. "Well," she marveled, her voice only wavering a little bit as it took on a cold tone, "don't you clean up nice?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "karma's a bitch, huh?" He spun around and walked back to the car.

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The End. Short and sweet, right? So, what did you all think? 


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